


The Favor

by Princess_Violet



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ghost friendship, Murder, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Violet/pseuds/Princess_Violet
Summary: This story came out of a writing prompt on hobbylark.com.  Here's the prompt:You call an 800 number for technical support for a new piece of electronic equipment that you bought, and an associate named George helps you out. That night, your sleep is disturbed by the feeling that someone is watching you. Startled, you sit up in bed and see a silhouette in the moonlight. It's George.I changed it a little, but here is my Halloween story.  Enjoy and comment.





	The Favor

Something is wrong with my computer. I just bought it last night, and already it’s not working. I’ve tried everything I can think of to fix my problem, but to be honest there’s not a lot I know about computers. I’ve always been more of a pen and paper person. I sigh. 

A pop-up ad blinks onto my screen. That’s weird. I could’ve sworn I had a pop-up blocker on this thing. It’s advertising some kind of tech help number, which strangely enough is just what I need right now. I brush it off as a coincidence and dial.

“1-800-TECHIES. My name is George, how may I help you today?”

“Hi George. I’m having a problem with my computer. It’s only been turned on once, and I can’t seem to get it to shut down.”

George asks me to hold down my power button and remove my battery. He says I should wait five to ten minutes to put it back in. We make small talk while I wait. I feel strangely connected to George. 

Soon I am able to put my laptop back together again. I give it a few seconds to start up and input my password into the lock screen. Everything boots up, and when I try to shut it down everything works perfectly. I thank George, hang up, and close my laptop. Sadly, my conversation with George is probably the most interesting I’ve had all week. 

I’m a dressmaker by trade. I own my own business, actually, which I run out of my small house in a suburb of Chicago. I founded “Cassie’s Stitch in Time” last year. I mostly do bridal, but occasionally there are other special occasions that need my abilities. Business has been pretty steady, although October isn’t exactly peak season. These days I mostly do alterations and sit around reading my favorite romance novels. I’m a sucker for happy endings. 

My laptop situation solved, I decide to start getting dinner ready. I’m really good at cooking for one. I’ve been doing it for the last 25 years, not that I’m complaining. At 43 I am too old to have a roommate, and I’ve given up trying to find a husband. Besides, I like being alone. I can make my own decisions without someone constantly looking over my shoulder. 

Halfway through cooking my chicken breasts I hear a knock at the door. That’s strange, I’m not expecting anyone. I run to the door to look through my peephole and see a very short witch and an equally miniscule vampire. It’s Halloween, and I’ve completely forgotten about Trick or Treat. 

I know I don’t have any candy, so I rush upstairs to my bedroom to find my jug full of change. I’m not thrilled about being the lady who only gives out coins, but I really don’t have a choice at this point. I rush to the door to dole out quarters to the happy children, who seem happy enough to get money instead of candy. I promise them I will get chocolate next year and send them on their merry way.

I eat my dinner in between bouts of handing out cash. By the time the last kid comes to my door I am yawning. I look at my watch and realize that it’s after ten o'clock. I have an early client tomorrow, so I decide to get ready for bed. 

As I snuggle under my duvet my mind wanders back to George. I wonder what it’s like to talk to people on the phone all day for a living. It sounds exhausting to me. Before long I am asleep.

I am awakened by a sudden urge to use the restroom. I blearily go about my task and soon am making my way back to my bed. I feel a sudden chill, and I swear I see a shadow creeping down the moonlit hallway. 

All of a sudden my bedroom door slams shut. I bite back a scream and try to be rational. The night seemed very calm when I went to bed, but a breeze could’ve suddenly picked up. Then again, the cool night air prevented me from opening a window.

I start to feel a pit in my stomach. I think about calling for help, but what would I say? If I just told someone my door slammed I don’t think they would take me very seriously. I tell myself that it was nothing and to be brave. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and turn the knob. I open my door and see…

Nothing. I don’t see anything unusual. A street lamp casts a dull glow through my window. My dresser is in the same place, and my bed looks unoccupied, the duvet crumpled from where I slept. My closet door is closed, just as I left it. There is a small armchair in the corner where I curl up to read on rainy days. It is unoccupied. 

I begin to head back to bed when I catch a flicker in the corner of my eye. I look toward the armchair and see a faint blue glimmer. As I try to convince myself that it must be a trick of the light, the glimmer becomes brighter and materializes into the shape of a human. He appears to be short and a bit stocky, with out of date round glasses perched on his nose. 

This must be a nightmare. I subtly pinch myself to be sure and am terrified when I can feel it. I want to shriek and run out of the room, but my legs feel frozen. I can only watch in horror as the specter regards me coolly.

“Hello, Cassandra,” it says.

“Hello,” I whisper. My voice doesn’t seem to be working too well. “Who--who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize my voice?”

I take a second to think. He doesn’t sound like one of my clients or anyone in my family. Could he be someone I dated? But it’s been years since I was involved in that activity. Then it hits me. 

“George?”

“That’s right.” George grins, and it is one of the most unsettling things I’ve seen in a long time.

“What-why are you here?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

I look at George blankly. “Thank you for what?”

“For fixing your computer, of course!”

“Um, thank you?” 

“You’re welcome.”

I still can’t wrap my head around how surreal this is. I’m still terrified, but that emotion is quickly becoming replaced by curiosity. Why did this figure decide to break into my home? Did George, or the ghost of George, come just to get me to thank him for his help? Somehow I doubt it. 

I put my hands on my hips. “What do you want?”

“Don’t be rude, Cassandra. Can’t a new friend stop by for a visit?”

“At midnight?”

George shrugs. “Well, I admit the timing is inconvenient, but think about it. It’s midnight on Halloween.”

I suppress the urge to tell him that it’s technically not Halloween anymore. I somehow don’t think it would be a good idea to make him angry. 

“I suppose I get the need for ambiance,” I reply, “but that still doesn’t explain why you are in my bedroom.”

George sighs. “Look, I need a favor. I’m stuck calling and haunting people because no one will help me. Most of them just scream and run away or hang up on me. Some call the police when I show up. Like that would help any of us. When we chatted on the phone earlier you seemed like a nice person.”

I start to feel sorry for George, and I must admit I am flattered by his compliment. No one has complimented my personality in a long time. I decide that I will do whatever I can for him.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated. You see, I was in tech support before I died. One night a woman named Brittany called me and begged me to help her. She said someone was trying to kill her, and the only way to prevent it from happening was to permanently delete a file on her computer. I tried to explain to her that nothing is ever permanently deleted, but she was quite insistent. In the end I couldn’t help her, and a man with an incredibly deep voice must have burst in the door. Brittany told me he had a gun. She whispered her address to me, and I realized it was mere blocks from the call center. 

I called the police and rushed to her house with no plan and no weapons. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, really. I just knew that she was in trouble, and I was the only one who could immediately help. By the time I got there it was too late. I couldn’t revive Brittany, and there was no sign of her killer anywhere, or so I thought. 

As I was leaving a man stepped out of the shadows. He was huge, with a bushy red beard and piercing blue eyes. He didn’t say much, just asked me what the hell I thought I was doing in his house. Since I was a witness, he said he had to get rid of me. So he did. As far as I know the police haven’t been able to catch Brittany’s and my killer because they never found the murder weapon.

Since then I have been calling people trying to find someone, anyone, who could help me catch him. I’m guessing that’s the reason I can’t pass on to the afterlife, or wherever I’m supposed to go after this.”

“Why don’t you just haunt him yourself? You know, scare him into telling you where the gun is?”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that? He can’t see me, or he at least pretends not to. Smug bastard.”

“What do you want me to do? I definitely won’t be intimidating to him. Anyway, the weapon could be long gone by now.”

“In between calling people I’ve been watching Mr. Redbeard. He leaves the house every night at around 9:00. Not sure if he has a new girlfriend or what, but that would be the perfect time for you to sneak in.”

“If the police didn’t find anything, what makes you think I will?” 

“Because I know where the gun is. One advantage of not being seen is I was able to search the entire house. The gun is hidden in a secret compartment underneath the floorboards in his study. Very Tell Tale Heart.”

“So let me get this straight. If I sneak into the murderer’s house, grab the murder weapon, and give it to the police then you’ll be able to cross over?”

“That’s my working theory.”

I ponder this idea for a moment. George’s plan is an incredibly stupid one with the possibility of getting me killed. On the other hand, how can I abandon this spirit who has been left to fend for himself so many times before? He’s a guy with a conscience who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

“I’ll do it,” I reply, “but you have to come with me.”

“Of course.” 

“And you need to let me get some sleep.”

“Fair enough. I will see you tomorrow night.” With that, George vanishes. 

Even after George leaves my head is spinning. Why did I have to have computer trouble on this particular night? Why did George pick up my call instead of someone else’s? I know I am crazy to think I can pull off George’s mission without getting myself killed, but I feel it is something I must do. I’m never one to take risks like this, but I’m also not one to deny help to someone in need. Besides, I reason, once in awhile I need to do something totally crazy and uncharacteristic of me. Otherwise I have become the thing I fear most, a boring old fogey. I close my eyes and am almost instantly asleep.

When I wake up at 6:00 there is a blissful moment when I am just happy to be alive. Then I begin to remember last night’s conversation. Did I really have a chat with the ghost of an IT guy? Maybe it was just a dream. Then I notice it. There is a small sticky note attached to my dresser that reads:

Don’t forget about tonight.  
\--George

Underneath there is an address scrawled on another note. This must be where I am supposed to go. I find myself feeling more than a bit uneasy. 

The day goes by in a blur. My early client is a very chatty bride, but I don’t mind. I am lost inside my own thoughts most of the time. I am trying to come up with a plan for tonight’s escapade, but nothing is coming to me. I feel as though I am trusting my life to a dead person, which is truly ironic. 

Night falls. I am in my study finishing up my paperwork for the day and starting to get cold feet. I decide to quit thinking so much about it, which only makes me think about my task more. Around seven I decide that I can’t go on this ludicrous quest on an empty stomach and head downstairs to make dinner. I forego my customary chicken breasts for some pasta. I briefly wonder if the carbs will give me more energy and make me braver.

Around 8:30 I go out to my car, a 1969 Poppy Red Volkswagen Beetle that I inherited from my grandmother. I find myself wishing that I owned something a little less conspicuous. As I start up the engine I feel a familiar chill. Sure enough, George appears in the passenger seat. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, leaning over to adjust the radio. Classic rock begins to blare. I turn it down and turn to my companion.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

George gives me directions to Mr. Redbeard’s home in the heart of the city. My anxiety builds with each mile. By the time we reach our destination it is about 8:55. I park across the street from a broken down looking bungalow that George says is the right house.

George and I wait in the car until we see a hulking figure emerge from the house. The motion sensor light clicks on, and I get a fuller view of the man as he heads down the front steps. He is just as George described him last night, extremely large and bearded, with bushy red hair sticking up in all directions. He is wearing a black hoodie, jeans, and brown work boots. I guess that he’s probably not going on a date. Nevertheless, Redbeard stomps down to the driveway and gets into a rusted, beaten up old car. He peels out of the driveway and somewhere to the east of us. My mission has officially begun.

“Redbeard keeps a hideaway key next to the bottom step,” George whispers. I am not sure why he is whispering, but I’m starting to realize it might be his flare for the dramatic. “What are you waiting for? Go!” 

I grab the flashlight I brought with me and hesitantly open the Beetle’s door and head across the street to the house, George trailing just behind me. The motion sensor light clicks on as soon as I get to the bottom step, and I am startled until I remember that the house’s only inhabitant just left. I kneel down and, sure enough, there is a plastic rock with a key hidden in a compartment underneath. I snatch the key and go up to the front door. 

My hand is shaking as I put the key in the lock. I turn and am confronted with semi-darkness, the only light supplied by a street lamp streaming in through the front windows. In the dimness I can make out a standard living room setup with a couch and an armchair lined up in front of a television. 

“Go straight through the dining room. The study is to the left at the top of the stairs,” George tells me, still whispering. 

I follow George’s directions and am soon standing in the doorway to the office. My heart is in my throat as I click on my flashlight and sweep the room. A desk, chair, and bookshelf make up the space’s sparse furnishings. George floats to a spot in the corner under the window. 

“Dig underneath the boards here, and you’ll find the gun.”

I try to pry a board loose with my fingers, but it won’t budge. I curse, wishing I would’ve had the forethought to bring something, anything, to get these boards unstuck. 

I retrace my steps and find the kitchen. There is a butcher knife stuck in a block on the kitchen island. I grab it and go back to the study to try again. I slip the knife’s blade under the floor paneling and push down on the handle. The floor separates with a creak. I reach down, and my fingers curl around something cold and metallic. I pull up and am holding a handgun. 

“That’s it!” George crows. “Now let’s get out of here.”

George doesn’t have to tell me twice. I turn to leave the room, weapon in hand, and freeze. I swear I’ve just heard a car door slam. I tell myself not to panic. It could have been a neighbor’s vehicle, or even a pizza delivery. I relax a little and resume my escape. I am halfway down the stairs when another noise catches my attention, the sound of the front door opening. 

This can’t be happening. Redbeard couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen minutes. My mind races. Did he forget something? Does it really matter at this point? If I move even an inch I’m sure he’ll hear me, and I’ll be done for. I stay frozen and hope to God he doesn’t come my way.

Unfortunately my luck has never been great. Redbeard comes into the dining room and spots me almost immediately. His face twists into a hideously angry expression.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?!” he roars.

“I--I--” I stammer, terrified beyond belief. 

Redbeard rushes at me. I point the gun in his direction and pull the trigger, but the gun merely clicks. I really should’ve checked to see if it was loaded. Before I can have another thought his hands are around my neck. I can feel the life being squeezed out of me, and I flail and claw at his hands to no avail. It is terribly painful and seems like it will go on forever. Then, as suddenly as the feeling started, it stops.

Suddenly I am above my body looking down. I can make out ugly red marks that are forming into bruises on my throat. I have the odd thought that my black outfit makes me look attractively thin. 

I look at my hands and they are strangely transparent. In fact, I notice that my whole body is transparent and faintly bluish, just like--

“Tough break, Cassandra,” comes George’s voice. “And I had so much faith in you. Oh well, I guess it’s back to square one.”

I wheel around to face him. “Wait a minute! You don’t mean I’m--”

“Dead,” George says sadly. “Dead as a doornail. Well, your body is at least.” 

I can’t believe it. No, I refuse to believe it. There I was, just trying to do someone a favor, and I ended up dead? I mean, I knew this was a possibility, but to have it actually happen? I start to laugh hysterically, tears streaming down my face. Strange, really. I didn’t know ghosts could cry. 

George lays a hand on my shoulder, and I realize that I no longer feel chilled when he is near. “Calm down, it’s going to be okay.”

I regain some of my composure. “How, exactly is it going to be okay? How is any of this okay?”

“It just is. It has to be. Now, let’s go back to the call center. I’ll show you the ropes, and tomorrow we’ll try to find someone to help us.”

I sigh. What choice do I have? I follow George down the steps and out the door as Redbeard drags my lifeless corpse down the stairs. 

The next day I am at my post in the Techies call center. The phone hasn’t rung all day, and already I’m starting to lose hope. When I finally hear the phone trilling, I leap up and snatch it off the hook.

“1-800 TECHIES. My name is Cassandra. How may I help you today?”


End file.
